


Icarus

by thinkbucket



Series: Mythology Series [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, No actual smut this time, headcanon: they slept together before sodden, i brought some feelings tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24091315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkbucket/pseuds/thinkbucket
Summary: “Have you ever used that word before?”
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Mythology Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756774
Comments: 31
Kudos: 165





	Icarus

**Author's Note:**

> on a mythology kick can you tell?
> 
> i haven’t proofread this as much as i should but my eyes are tired
> 
> edit: figured out how to insert art! (also on tumblr @tiredthinkbucket)

* * *

Yennefer is reveling in this feeling, she is downright _savoring_ the power that she holds at this moment. It’s as though every damn table on the Continent has finally turned, because now _she_ is the one that Tissaia needs, and not the other way around. It’s the strangest, quite possibly one the strongest highs she has ever felt. No herb concoction or complex potion has ever before granted her such a sensation. Yennefer feels incredibly powerful, wielding this power that has been given her.

She wonders how many people have been in this position before. Who else has ever held such authority over Tissaia de Vries, renowned Rectoress of Aretuza? It’s incredible, really. After decades, she’s finally standing before her once mentor, being all but begged to join her cause. To be so desperate for help that the word _please_ has actually passed through the woman’s lips.

She loves the way Tissaia’s jaw clenches. The hard swallow, the downturn of pink lips, displeased with Yennefer’s mocking. She loves all of it, and she will wait. Yennefer learned long ago that you take as much as you can, when you can. And damn if she does not milk this opportunity for all that it has to offer her.

There’s a silence, long enough to be uncomfortable. Yennefer can’t keep her eyes from roaming Tissaia’s face, can’t help the smirk that has grown. She watches as it dawns on Tissaia, who seems to finally get the idea: Yennefer will not relent until she gets what she’s looking for. (More.)

Not once has she heard Tissaia apologize. Not once has she ever implored her help for anything. The woman is too stubbornly proud, too self righteous to ever stoop to such low levels as _begging_ someone for their help. No, she has always demanded compliance. She has only ever been the one in control.

Yet here they are.

But Tissaia says nothing. Her jaw ticks once more, her lips purse slightly, and she finally breaks eye contact. Perhaps Yennefer is asking for too much now. She wonders if she’s miscalculated, if she’s pushed her too far, if now Tissaia will retract, and Yennefer will have had a solid five minutes of glory to treasure for the rest of her lifetime.

No.

She’s waited long enough, she decides. If Tissaia will not give her what she wants, she will take it. She wants to continue savoring even this small amount of control over her former instructor that she has been afforded. A slight few minutes is not enough for her.

She pushes her luck. “Or perhaps I’ve misheard you then? If you could repeat yourself so I could hear you better, Rectoress?” She can’t help it. She’s a moth drawn to flame. She wants to know just how far she can go, how close can she get to the sun before she burns and falls?

Tissaia’s eyebrows draw together. “This is not a game, Yennefer.”

Like hell it isn’t. What else is this pathetic existence, if not a constant sport? One that has been playing them all?

“Then what is this? Is this you, risking your _pride_ , then?” She flings Tissaia’s earlier speech back in her face and the woman flinches. But Yennefer does not have the capacity to feel guilt for that barb and still remain angry so she barrels on, “Do you regret giving me up for a lost cause? Leaving me to my own devices because I only learned more and more how full of shit this place is, how full of shit you are? How much it only held me back?”

“I know you’re angry,” Tissaia tries to begin, but she’s cut off swiftly.

“You cannot even begin to understand how I feel,” Yennefer hisses.

“Let me try,” Tissaia says then, gently. “I want to try, Yennefer.”

But this isn’t the Tissaia that Yennefer is used to, isn’t the woman she remembers. Why is she trying so hard now? She doesn’t _want_ to feel this way. Doesn’t _want_ to forgive her. She has been fueled by this bitterness, this need to prove her worth, to show Tissaia that despite everything the woman had put her through, she would one day rise above her, ultimately surpassing the old bag and showing her what a mage unbound by the restraints of Aretuza could achieve. But if Tissaia caves, if she does _try again_ , what will Yennefer be left with? What will she have left to spur her on? This hatred has become a part of her, so entwined with her the woman she has become, that she does not know who she’d be without it.

So she scoffs. Shakes her head, says, “And then what? You want to understand just how I feel about this shithole? How I feel about you?” Her voice cracks on the last word and she wants to scream. Nearly does, as she raises her voice, “How can you possibly undo what you’ve already done? Don’t tell me there’s a spell for that too, that I was perhaps supposed to discover on my own?”

Tissaia places a soft hand on her forearm, gripping lightly, cutting her off before she can carry on. “Not here, Yennefer.”

“No, _Tissaia_ , if you don’t want to talk now then I don’t want to speak to you at all.”

“We will have it now,” she replies ever so patiently, irritatingly calm. “But not _here_. Come.” She drops her hand from Yennefer’s arm, and Yennefer is too _angry_ to want it back, but she feels the loss anyway. Tissaia steps back, raises her eyebrows, smiles slightly in what she daresay looks hopeful, and fuck it all Yennefer relents. Tissaia nods and gives a little tilt of her head to indicate they should walk.

They start down the halls, Yennefer falling into step beside Tissaia in a way that feels _uncomfortably_ comfortable. They walk in silence, the only sounds are the distant chatter behind them as they walk further and further away from the conclave, and their footsteps echoing in the dimly lit hallway. The minutes pass, and after another turn, Yennefer finds herself in an unfamiliar corridor. They stop before a door Yennefer has never seen, and she waits as Tissaia murmurs in Elder, undoing the wards as Yennefer wonders how many secrets Tissaia has kept from her alone.

Once finished, they step inside, and Yennefer pauses to look around at what she realizes must be Tissaia’s private study. It is far smaller than the one that is accessible to students, the one that Yennefer so often had met her instructor in. It is immaculately tidy, and lit only by a chandelier above and few candles throughout the room.

Tissaia closes the door behind them. “So, Yennefer.” And despite the new environment, Yennefer can’t help but feel as though she is once again awaiting the approval from the Rectoress. “Where shall we begin?”

(Later, she will blame the confusion, the swirling madness of conflicting hatred and desire that she feels and has not stopped feeling since the enchantress had visited her in Rinde, placed her delicate hands upon her shoulders and sat imperiously upon her bed.)

In lieu of an answer, she surges forward and captures Tissaia’s mouth with her own.

There’s a sharp intake of breath for the other woman, but there is no resistance as she kisses back.

Yennefer is not gentle.

She is furious, she is ferocious, and she all but slams Tissaia against the door with a thud as she relentlessly kisses her. Tissaia groans as Yennefer bites down on her lip, hard, and Yennefer feels nails on her scalp before there’s a tug on her hair. Ignoring it, Yennefer moves to the woman’s neck and starts peppering it with kisses and bites alike, relishing the quiet moans coming from Tissaia, ones she can feel tearing through her own body. Tissaia tugs sharply once more, and this time Yennefer follows it, dragging her lips along Tissaia’s jaw and back to her lips. Licks into her mouth, tastes sweetness and regret.

“I hate you,” Yennefer whispers against her, and her breathing becomes labored with something more than just passion. “I hate you so much.” She turns and buries her head in Tissaia’s neck.

“I know,” Tissaia murmurs back, her fingers become a soft graze as they run through Yennefer’s hair. Yennefer hates it. She’s so angry, does not want to enjoy this small comfort. And as she grits her teeth, presses harder against Tissaia, she knows the woman will feel the wetness from her eyes, but it’s too late to care.

An arm winds its way around Yennefer tightly.

“You were right,” she says as she strokes Yennefer’s hair softly. “You have every right to be angry.”

Despite having waited to hear this for years, now Yennefer feels no satisfaction from the words. She knows that it’s probably the closest she will ever get to an apology from the woman, and perhaps that should infuriate her, but it’s close enough.

There’s so much that Yennefer wants to say, but no way to say it other than crying into Tissaia’s neck.

“Yennefer,” Tissaia whispers, soothing.

“Gods, I hate you,” is all she can say.

She’d wanted the older sorceress to know her anger, her frustration, but not like this. Not this way. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

They stay that way a while. Against her will, Yennefer finds herself relaxing in Tissaia’s embrace, allowing the woman’s soft hushes and touch to calm her down. And after some time, her breathing returns to normal, and she shifts, pulling back to wipe at her eyes. She guiltily eyes the mess she’s made on Tissaia’s dress, but the woman is staring past her shoulder, deep in thought.

Tissaia finally speaks. “We cannot, _I_ cannot, do this without you, Yennefer,” the words are quiet, and there is so much that comes unspoken with those simple words, but they are there, and they burn into her being.

Yennefer tries to turn away from Tissaia and is stopped by a hand on her cheek. She looks at her and frowns. And why? Is this not exactly what she was looking for when she followed Vilgefortz to Aretuza? She thought that this was what she wanted, what she’s been looking for all along. But trust Tissaia to take something Yennefer wanted to enjoy and turn it on its head, because all Yennefer feels is--

Yennefer closes her eyes. She can’t keep looking Tissaia in the eye, not when they are so raw and so honest. Yennefer has known what it’s felt like to be wanted, to be desired, but she has never known _this_. She has never known being _needed_.

And she finds that she does not know how to handle it.

So she does not. Instead, she kisses Tissaia again, desperate and rough. Yennefer’s hands are pushing her back up against the door again before sliding down to her hips. Tissaia’s tongue clashes against her own and Yennefer is drowning, she is suffocating at the taste of her, soaring higher and faster with every touch, and nothing has ever felt this good before. Tissaia is the sun that Yennefer’s world has revolved around, whether or not she’d have liked to admit it. Yennefer has always been chasing after her, always seeking to gain her favor, ever trying to get close, only to be held back by invisible chains of her own making.

She presses her body against the shorter woman’s, pushing infinitely closer, slots her thigh in between her legs and enjoys the hitched breath it elicits. Yennefer tries to pour all of her feelings, her wanting into the kiss, and Tissaia takes it all, all in.

She feels hot, her heart is melting, her body is burning, but she shivers as Tissaia’s lips ghost over her jaw, kissing gently before whispering, “Come with me.”

* * *

“I don’t hate you,” she says later.

Yennefer's fingers are trailing across the gentle, sloping curves of Tissaia’s body. They lay together in Tissaia’s bed, having long since caught their breaths, now simply existing here together.

Tissaia doesn’t reply.

“I wanted to hate you. I hated so much of what you put me through. The humiliation. I loathed your constant criticism as much as I coveted your rare approval.” She draws invisible lines with her fingertips. Watches the goosebumps raise in their wake. “As much as I hated you, I loved you.”

Her hand traces along Tissaia’s jaw reverently, then on to pink lips, mapping out the edges that have turned upwards in a soft smile. But she remains silent, watching Yennefer. “Now I feel as though I never knew what love was. Sometimes I thought I did. But I’ve never loved someone this much. I’ve never n-“ catches, swallows, continues, “I’ve never wanted something so much.”

She’d caught herself too late. She closes her fist, closes her eyes, and leans her forehead down. Buries it into Tissaia’s shoulder, as if it will hide her from the burning shame she feels. She’s gotten too close to the sun, and now she wonders if she will ever stop falling.

The steady breaths, out, in, out, bring a comfort to her. Simply listening, feeling. “You’re allowed to need, Yennefer,” Tissaia whispers finally. “You’re allowed to need, above merely wanting.”

What she wants, what she needs is Tissaia’s warmth to swallow her up whole, to soak in this embrace and nothing else for eternity. To live here with her, cohabiting this same breath they share now, always. To fall forever, further and deeper in love than she thought possible. She draws in a deep breath, her lungs full of Tissaia.

“I should probably get to my rooms,” Yennefer whispers instead. Does not want to, but knows she should, so she gently begins to extract herself from the woman’s arms. Tissaia lets her get up, watches as she begins to gather her garments. She rises from the bed.

Then Tissaia says, “You can stay here.”

Yennefer turns to look at the other woman, who stretches out a hand, beckoning her back into the bed. Her heart clenches. It’s strange, being invited to stay in her space. Like she’s allowed to take up room in her heart, just being able to be here, together with Tissaia.

Tomorrow they will go off to war. She will do it, if for no one else, for Tissaia. But tonight, she is still the highest she has ever been.

She climbs back into bed, allows herself to be held, lets hands burn softly along her skin and as she drifts off, she maybe hears, “love you too,” but perhaps she’s already dreaming.

* * *


End file.
